by Carla Kelly
The mill owner smiled at her. “And all this from a new hair arrangement?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she considered. “I am not so old, sir, that I cannot make my way in the world.”
“No, my dear, you are not.”
She waited for him to laugh, but he gazed at her reflection in the mirror instead, as though unable to look at her directly. I am being rude, she thought suddenly. “Mr. Butterworth, I do not mean to imply …”
“… that I am old? Well, I am not, Miss Milton,” he said. “I will be forty-five next year, and most days, the years do sit lightly on me.”
She turned to face him. “They have been good years, have they not, sir? When I think of all that you have accomplished, and the influence you are even now exerting ….”
“That accounts for ten years only, madam,” he interrupted, and the anger in his voice made her shiver, even more because it seemed to be directed inward. “Even a jackass like Cecil would call that a poor return on investment.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Butterworth, I do not understand you.”
“No, you do not, my dear Miss Mitten.” As she watched in consternation, he made a visible effort to collect his emotions. He patted her hand. “Ah! Put it down to nerves, dear lady. If the Jeremy Bentham likes what we are doing here and comes onto the board, that will be worth the addition of ten or twelve ordinary mortals.”
He sat back in the chair and was silent a long minute. She knew his habits and did not interrupt his thoughts, but tucked in a stray hairpin, and wondered if a little lavender behind her ears would not war with the fish course that she and Amanda were in high hopes about. “I must go downstairs,” she said, rising from the dressing table. “Amanda will be in a stew, and here I sit.”
“Listening to an old man rave,” he finished for her.
“Never that,” she said firmly. “You are not old and you do not rave.”
“And you are invariably kind.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a slim box. “Would you kindly wear this necklace tonight? It belonged to my mother, and would look especially fine against that blue fabric.”
She opened the box and smiled to see a sapphire on a silver chain. “It’s beautiful and I will borrow it happily,” she said.
He took the necklace from the box and put it around her neck, fiddling a moment with the clasp. “I have larger sapphires that he gave her later—it was his favorite jewel—but this little stone was the first gift from his first quarter profits on his first mill. A self-made man right out of a pig farm in the Yorkshire Dales, ma’am.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Even the other factory owners would sniff when he walked through the Exchange, but by God, Jane, he could spin straw into gold, and he bought their mills.”
She touched the necklace. I wonder if I could ever express in words what you mean to me, she thought. I wish I were even remotely close to your league, even as you tell me of pig farms. “I’ll take good care of it tonight,” she assured him.
“Well, give me a hug for luck, Miss Mitten. I feel the need of it.”
She did as he said. “And I thought you were so confident,” she spoke into his waistcoat, her arms tight around him.
“Maybe we don’t know each other as well as we think we do,” he replied, resting his chin on her head a moment, until he must have realized what he was doing to her coiffure. “Oh, do excuse me. If I ruin Upshaw’s efforts, she will smite me, and Jane, I am afraid of her.”
Maybe we don’t know each other, she thought, as she laughed and backed away to tinker with her hair again. You would be appalled if I ever actually did speak my mind.
It was a sobering thought, and it claimed her attention, even as she met the other guests in the sitting room before the butler summoned them to dinner. She had her own surprise to see Lord Ware among the company of businessmen. I have not seen you since Blair’s funeral, she thought. Do we all keep strange company? He came immediately to her side and bowed.
“Miss Milton! This is a rare pleasure,” he said to her, drawing her a little aside. “I stopped to see Lord Denby on my way here, and he told me of all the response you have received to your invitations. And reluctantly admitted that you and Andrew had been abducted by the mill owner for Christmas.”
“I would hardly call it that. Is Lord Denby doing well?” she asked, her conscience suddenly smitten. “I wrote him one letter when I arrived, but since then, things here have been at sixes and sevens.”
Lord Ware nodded. “He complained of some ill usage by your abandonment, but he did own that his sister was fully occupied with Cecil, who seems to have contracted an unusual disease”—he leaned closer and whispered in her ear—“that I thought only afflicted horses! Miss Milton, who would have thought that under your calm demeanor lurks a dreadful rascal?”
“Who indeed?” she replied, and stood on tiptoe to speak softly to him. “Lord Ware, I had no idea you were one of those fiery socialists who gets involved with commerce, and a board member, as well.”
He looked around him. “I am not alone in that, Miss Milton. You would be surprised, I think, to know how many do what I am doing. I know a wave of the future when it smacks me in the face. Others of our class are even so forward-thinking as to be involved in canal ventures.” He laughed softly. “But I am no friend of travel by water—I get seasick in a hip tub!—so I have chosen instead to inject an occasional shilling into scabby textile commerce.”
Jane touched his arm. “You cannot lightly quiz your way through this, my lord,” she teased in turn. “You are a radical for actually wishing to help factory workers instead of merely exploit them.”
“My dear Miss Milton, I own to a conscience,” he admitted. “I would wish that more of our class did. Which reminds me: Stanton told me that you invited Edward Bingham to the reunion.”
Now why should Edward Bingham remind you of a conscience? she asked herself. If I knew you better, I would ask. “The man from Connecticut?” she asked. “I did invite him, but we doubt that he will attend, and it is a very long way, my lord.”
“In more ways than you know, my dear,” he murmured. “Let us say, if he turns up, I will be astounded.”
She laughed. “Now you will tell me that my dear Lord Denby has secrets. Excuse my skepticism!”
She thought he would laugh, but he only nodded, then bowed and rejoined the circle of men engaged in fervent conversation that seemed to involve much waving about of arms, and head nodding. When the butler announced dinner, she watched him make his stately progress toward the dining room and wondered to herself if she knew anyone without a secret. I still repose all my confidence in Mr. Butterworth, she thought, as she watched him coming toward her, Amanda clinging to his arm. His melancholy tonight I will assign to a case of nerves. How refreshing that he is mortal.
“Miss Milton, may I take the two of you down to dinner?” he asked. “Amanda here is clutching me like a leech in pond water, and I am depending upon you to give us both countenance, considering that you look so fine.”
“If I did not know how frequently you dispense compliments to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, I would blush,” she whispered.
He turned to Amanda. “It appears she does not take me seriously, niece.”
I would like to, she thought, I would like to. “Come, Amanda,” she said. “Let us go forward, girding our loins and hoping that the venison is this year’s, and that no one drops the aspic between the kitchen and the table!”
Much later she stood with Amanda at the entrance while Mr. Butterworth and Richard saw the guests to their carriages. She smiled when Amanda took her hand and held it as they stood close together. “Success, my dear,” she said. “Your father and uncle look satisfied enough for twenty mill owners. I hope you have an extravagant Christmas list, because they will be in a generous mood!”
Amanda sighed and gave Jane’s hand a squeeze. “This is reward enough. Thank you,” she said simply. “Uncle Scipio tells me that your sole aim in life is to go about making the re
st of us look better.”
Some of us don’t even need my help, if help it is, she thought, as she watched Mr. Butterworth saying good night to his guests. If mill workers in Huddersfield sleep better at night, and with stomachs more full, it is because of this man. And he compliments me?
“Miss Milton, have you a moment?”
She turned around in surprise to see Lord Ware shrugging himself into his overcoat. “I always have a moment for you, my lord,” she replied as she helped him and then walked with him to the door.
Lord Ware nodded to the mill owners, but would not relinquish his hold on her when Mr. Butterworth offered to help him to his carriage. “Miss Milton is far prettier,” he said, “and you would think me in queer stirrups indeed if I kissed you on the cheek, Mr. Butterworth!” he declared.
The mill owner just bowed. “I never argue with eccentricity, Lord Ware. Mind you do not catch a chill, Miss Milton, or we would not be able to continue our exploitation of you!”
“A good man,” he commented as he allowed her to help him to his carriage. “Step inside a moment, my dear, for there is something you should know.”
She did as he asked, allowed him to hand her in, speak briefly to his coachman, and then close the door on them.
“Lord Denby is not well?” she asked, leaning forward and whispering for no good reason that she could think of, considering that they were alone in the carriage. “I will return immediately, if I must, sir.”
He shook his head, and then took hold of her hand. “My dear, are you aware that Lady Denby is spreading rumors?” he asked.
“I have been aware for years that she is determined to discredit Andrew,” she replied. “It is all so pointless!”
He shook his head again, this time with even more emphasis. “I have heard those rumors, too, my dear. I was not referring to them.”
“Then I suppose I do not know to what you are referring, my lord,” she said, when he was silent for a long moment.
“She is saying things about you,” he stated finally.
“Me!” she exclaimed, drawing back from him. “Oh dear! Did she actually look up epizootic fever in a book or something?”
“I wish it were so harmless,” he replied, as if the words were being pulled from him with pincers.
“Then tell me, my lord,” she said. “I have apologized to her for so many misdemeanors through the years that my skin is as thick as an elephant’s. What is another apology?”
He shook his head. “It is not simple.” He leaned closer, taking both her hands in his. “Miss Milton, she seems to think that you know more about Lord Canfield’s death than you ever told anyone.”
Oh, I do, she thought. Much, much more.
“I told her she was imagining things, and that Blair was so close to death for so long that any suspicions would be unthinkable,” he continued.
“Unthinkable,” she echoed, hoping that her voice did not sound as hollow as it seemed to her ears.
“Precisely,” he said, releasing her hands and sitting back to appraise her. “It is common knowledge to most of us that she wants Cecil to inherit the title and estates.”
“And that I am Andrew’s only champion at Denby,” she said. “She must mean to drive me away, so he has no one left.”
She waited in silence, but Lord Ware said nothing more. “Will I see you again before the reunion?” she said finally.
“No, my dear. After tomorrow’s meeting at the factory, I am ordered home by Lady Ware, who, for some unaccountable reason, chooses not to spend Christmas alone.” He opened the door for her, and helped her down. “I wanted you to know, Miss Milton. I value your good sense.”
“Thank you for that, my lord,” she murmured, and stood in the driveway until his carriage left. I wonder why it is so hard to do the right thing? she asked herself.
Lord Ware was the last guest to depart. She stood a long time in the driveway, her mind full of disquiet, watching the snow begin to fall. A flake here and a flake there, she thought. It seems like nothing, but by morning there will be such a pile of it. Her eyes filled with tears. A word here, a look there, and Andrew is dismissed from what is rightfully his. A word here, a whisper there, and I am undone. “There is this one difference, Jane Milton,” she murmured out loud. “The accusations against Andrew are without basis. But somehow she knows.”
“Knows what?”
Jane jumped, then put out her hand to steady herself. “Mr. Butterworth, was I talking to myself again?” she asked, striving for a light tone.
He took her by the arm. “Yes, indeed, and standing here in the cold!” He hurried her up the steps and back into the entrance hall, shutting the door behind him and locking it. “Heavy of eyes but light of heart, Amanda has taken herself off to bed. My brother-in-law is probably describing scenes of triumph to my sister, and you and I are left with time on our hands. Jane, what is the matter?”
He tacked the question onto the end of a string of lighthearted comments, and it took her a moment for the sudden serious tone of his voice to register in her mind.
“It is nothing that a good night’s sleep will not cure,” she said, wincing in spite of herself.
“And how long since your last good night’s sleep, Miss Mitten?” he asked softly, following her up the stairs. “A week? A month? Six months? Since Lord Canfield died? Or has it been so long that you can’t remember?”
“You are impertinent,” she said, even as she amazed herself with her own rudeness.
“Oh, I am,” he agreed, taking her by the hand and making her sit with him on the top of the steps. “We’re that way, you know, those of my class. We wade right into a problem. My betters call that crass, but do you know, Jane, I sleep nights. And when I wake up, I don’t come leaping up out of a chair as though I had seen a ghost!”
“You startled me!” she said. “That was all it was.”
He got to his feet quickly. “You’re a liar, Miss Milton, and I am tired. Good night.”
Her mind numb, Jane pulled up her knees and rested her forehead on them as the mill owner stalked away. In a few moments, she heard his door slam, the sound carrying in the quiet corridor. In a moment, another door opened, and Richard stuck his head out. Jane made herself small on the stairs, grateful for the shadow. “Your brother is in a pelter about something,” she heard him say. “I thought he was over those.”
She sat very still for the better part of an hour, leaning her head against the railing, wondering what to do with herself. She was tired right down to the soles of her feet, but it wasn’t the kind of tired that had sent her to peaceful-enough slumber the last few nights. It was the familiar exhaustion that seemed to come from her heart, and not from a body weary with the day’s business and needing the rejuvenation that a night’s rest would bring.
How odd this is, Jane, she thought. You cannot bear to close your eyes, but when you finally sleep, you dread waking up. You work so hard—so hard!—every day to please everyone, and you cannot please yourself. You dread Lady Carruthers, but you dread yourself even more. You are your own worst enemy; you cannot trust yourself enough to close your own eyes, and that is a sad reflection. Now I have done the impossible, she thought, as she stood up, feeling older than the oldest woman living. I have made Mr. Butterworth angry. Shame on me.
After a look in at Andrew and Jacob, to tug the covers up higher around them and stand a moment by the window watching the snow fall, she went to her own room. She returned the sapphire to its case, touching the stone and marveling to herself that it retained the warmth of her body. But I do not feel warm, she thought. How can this be?
She undressed, draping Emma’s lovely gown over the chair and arranging the soft folds of the shawl on top. A pin here and a pin there, and her hair came undone as well, settling around her shoulders in a familiar way that calmed her mind a little. Another moment and she was buttoning her nightgown. “Now I lay me down to sleep,” she whispered, unable to finish the little verse. The Lord will not want to keep my
soul.
“If he should die before I wake.” She stared into the darkness that wasn’t dark enough to suit her, hardly daring to think what forms the room would take on when she opened her eyes into the terror that always came first, just before it turned into morning.
Chapter Twelve
It was the same dream as always, with the sounds that were impossible to ignore, but ones which had not the power to wake her until the book in her lap slid to the floor and landed with a splash at her feet.
She was awake then, and out of her chair, and staring into the wide eyes of a man drowning in his own blood. With a cry of her own, she reached for his neck to stop the gush, but he was just out of her grasp. She tried again; even though her arm stretched longer and longer in her dream, he was farther away. She reached again, crying for help. There was Mr. Lowe as always, standing on the other side of the bed and shaking his head at her. “I told you it would be like this. Weren’t you listening?” She pleaded with him to help her, and then began to cry when he turned around and left the room after a wink and a thumbs-up sign.
“Don’t leave me!” she cried. “Oh, please, not this time!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Jane. Move over.”
Fogged with sleep, drugged by her dream, she slid over, and then gasped when she opened her eyes. “Mr. Butterworth?” she managed to say, even as she made no objection when he gathered her into his arms and pulled the blankets around both of them.
“The very same. A little more casually dressed perhaps, but then, I have never been a fashion plate, dear Jane.”
She shivered and let him pull her so close that she felt like part of him. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, even as she clasped her hands tighter around his back.
“I disagree,” he said. “I can’t think of a single other place where I should be, more than right here. Your feet are cold!” Still she shivered. “Turn around, my dear,” said the mill owner finally. “Like spoons. Perfect,” he said in her ear as he clasped his hands over her stomach and pulled her against him. “I defy you to be cold now. I am certain that I have sufficient avoir dupois for both of us.”
